Boobs
I tried to think of another title but this one is just about boobs
My daughter gave me a shirt that she no longer wanted. It’s a tissue thin cotton tee, sliding off the shoulders and short at the waist. The odd print mess is an alarming color combo of purple, orange, brown and white. It’s not a shirt I would ever select, aesthetically, but it has become a favorite because it’s so comfortable. The tissue drape is a loose whisper that feels a breath away from my naked self, which is perfection on a hot day. The fact of my breasts makes it problematic in public, though, and I feel the need for a bra or a sculpting tank.
This is my fury.
It’s the first warm day of the season and I just spent hours clearing brush in my yard, wearing a corset-like sports bra under my tee. It’s wildly uncomfortable, itchy and tight, a sweaty constraint. When I get back in the house, I rip it off in a frenzy. Why do I wear this torturous garment in my own yard? I don’t care what my family thinks, they’ve seen it all before.
It’s because of my horrible neighbor.
Jimmy has opinions about my boobs. I’ve never heard them, thank god, but I can tell by the way he has stared, gape-mouthed and entirely too close, at my chest. It’s a regular chest, medium-sized, always clothed modestly in his presence, but he is creepy and prone to leering and space-invading. This means that every time I take a walk or work in the yard, I must consider what I wear. I must consider the complete coverage and control of my boobs, lest I give him too much to gawp at. Even though I live in a sparsely populated rural place, my neighbor is always just a leer away and it dictates the way I dress my body. It enrages me.
My breasts are lovely - all breasts are - but not for public consumption (unless I change my mind). It’s up to me. On a hot day, I’d love to charge out the door in that tissue thin, vomit colored tee and not worry about it. I’d love to exist in the world as myself, without armor. Why, here in the middle of my life, when I’ve got very few fucks left to give, do I care about this?
Boobs are delightful. They’re lovely and funny, sexy and silly. Sometimes they feel delicious and sometimes they hurt. They are both function and decoration. They complete outfits and ruin them. But the world taught me, in the early 70s when mine made their first appearance, that boobs need to be managed. Everyone without them has entirely too many opinions.
Men and boys have always felt the right to comment freely about my body. My stepfather called my budding breasts “bee stings” and asked if I’d like some bandaids. Then he laughed. I hated him with a white hot fury. Artie Lawrence called me “Minnesota Flats” in middle school and all the little boys laughed. He was a first crush until that early stand-up performance. White hot fury.
Who can forget high school, when one’s boobs determined one’s brand? My best friend, a gorgeous, brilliant girl full of promise and mystery, was built like a brick house (as the radio explained). I remember her weeping about the way the boys looked at her, treated her, dismissed her. She was catcalled in the halls daily. She was demure and intellectual, but her breasts told a different story.
Bras are the worst. When I was a young woman, I rarely wore them and didn’t care what anyone thought. Damn the torpedo stares. Like No Secrets Carly Simon, unrestrained tits and tees was my uniform. That was years ago, when I had more balls or more stupidity, it’s hard to know the difference. Now I care. I still rarely wear a bra, but am not inclined to pull a Carly in the grocery store anymore. I layer. I don’t want the creepy Jimmies of the world ogling, licking their toothless gums. I want to control the narrative.
“Is this too titular?” I ask the husband before presenting in public.
We have to wear our boobs all the time. It’s not like we can put them on for parties, take them off for business. Dress them up or leave them in the closet. Everywhere we go, there they are. I love them, but sometimes they get in the way. Sometimes I want a person to look in my eyes when they speak to me, so I have to make sure the boobs are tucked away. This is a true thing, I tested it. My husband once bought me a Wonderbra in an airport (business trips will make you horny and hopeful, temporarily forgetting the bralessness of your bride). On a lark, I wore it to the office Christmas party under a low-cut dress and was shocked at the male attention, different than any I’d ever experienced. They really don’t look at your eyes. They really do cluster excitedly, like teen boys in a movie, and hang on every vapid word. It was incredible, and incredibly uncomfortable. I never wore it again.
We make our choices. I have a good friend who has massive bombshell boobs and she wholeheartedly embraces the bombshellness of them. I am in awe of her confidence. She is always dressed in low cut, boob-presentation garb and it really is hard to look away! Once, at a dinner party, we were talking alone in the kitchen and I gently laid a clean cloth napkin across her chest, like a bib, because they are SO DISTRACTING! Gorgeous, of course, but how can you calmly discuss the crab dip or the neighbor’s infidelity when that is happening?
The pandemic has been great for breasts. They’ve been swinging free at home, braless in leisure wear. Camouflage is easy on Zoom, a big sweater, a busy pattern, no bouncing. I still need to grab the sports bra and a high neck shirt for my daily walk, though. I’m mad about it every day.
If you display them, you’re “asking for it.” If you’re modest, you’re a mouse. Tales told by idiots.
I know women who have had breast reduction and breast augmentation surgeries. Some of it is for comfort, but much of it is because we’re all trying to fit into some aesthetic norm. We wear shapewear - we squeeze and lift, mold and smash. Western standards of beauty are confusing because they get all tangled up with standards of propriety and what any number of “others” find appropriate. If I feel beautiful, but I make you uncomfortable, should I be shamed? Judged? Stopped? Policed?
In the 1940s, my grandmother, imperious in high starched collars, long wool skirts, and low Etienne Aigners, abandoned her husband and children for a rake from Texas, a beautiful Mexican man who wanted only her. She was no bombshell, her bosom wasn’t large or heaving, the narrative was not told by her body. She blew up her family and lived a life of high, crazy romance, dressed like a schoolteacher. Don’t judge the book by the cover. (And don’t be like my grandmother. They both died miserable, leaving a lot of wreckage behind.)
In short, boobs are great. I’d just like to take a walk without thinking about them.
A few things to share:
Those gorgeous breasts at the top are courtesy of Sarah Goodridge, a 19th century miniaturist. The tiny painting is lush and amazing, but the story is a hoot. She painted her boobs for her rumored lover, a U.S. senator. The first sext? The senator kept it all his life and it’s in the Met now. Must get to the city.
“Personal Growth” is a brilliant, haunting essay by Marina Benjamin, a memoir about the ways in which our bodies fit into our families. Or not.
Twitter is hell, I know, but I love it there with my creative friends. I find art, books, and laughs. I have real friends on Twitter! What will we do? Where will we go? Will we stay and watch the trolls march in? It’s so hard to know how to live in this crazy world. I limit where I shop, telling myself it’s “economic activism.” I deleted Facebook, which never did anything for me anyway. But *whiny voice* Twitter is my friends!
I’m obsessed with this. The subterranean world is such dark mystery. What else is down there?!
Cheers!
Lisa
I won't lie. The title brought me here. Shameful, I know, but was elevated by the read. There is a lot of material on the Internet that incorporates the word "boobs" in the title. This may be my favorite, which is saying a lot.
I was just telling someone today as I discussed my mammogram that there's only one woman who can handle these breasts, and I needed to be sure she was working on the day I am currently scheduled. Can't have everybody putting their hands on these babies. Gawd, but I would love to go BRALESS. I love this!